


Ain't No Sunshine

by CanisMajor1234



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bisexual Male Character(s), Boys In Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Disabled Character, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Major game spoilers, Railroad dynamics, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9182548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanisMajor1234/pseuds/CanisMajor1234
Summary: "Winter in the Commonwealth hits hard and fast- one day it’s sunshine and comfortable weather, the next it’s clouds and frost and chill. It makes Drummer Boy’s bones ache every time, the change, makes his side twinge in discomfort and pain. His hip healed, the flesh mending with barely a scar, but Carrington made it clear that there was nothing they could do for the cartilage damage. Drummer Boy would probably never work in the field again. But that was okay. Desdemona had a more important job for him."Whisper and Drummer Boy have a delicate relationship, one balanced steady and careful. Drummer Boy should have known it was an act they couldn't keep up indefinitely.





	1. A Back and Forth

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired by "Reaching and Wanting to Run" by Beckon (which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7629886. It's really good you guys should read it). I didn't think there was much interest in Drummer Boy before reading that. Now, I'm happy to dump the stories of my Railroad Trash Children onto you guys.

Drummer Boy knows his own importance at HQ. For all he talks it up or down, Drummer Boy knows exactly where he stands. They all fill niches, each member of HQ. Desdemona is the boss, the face of certainty and command. Carrington is cold, clinical, harsh. Tinker Tom is eccentricity and fun, Glory and Deacon all inferno and smoke. 

And Drummer Boy? Drummer Boy is safety. He’s the first face an agent sees upon returning to HQ, and he’ll be the last face the agent sees when leaving. It’s a job that makes Drummer Boy irreplaceable, for he needs to know every name of every person walking through the entrance to HQ, needs to know their personalities and their preferences. Needs to know how to twist and tailor his persona to each of them, so that returning to HQ is catharsis and not a chore. 

Winter in the Commonwealth hits hard and fast- one day it’s sunshine and comfortable weather, the next it’s clouds and frost and chill. It makes Drummer Boy’s bones ache every time, the change, makes his side twinge in discomfort and pain. His hip healed, the flesh mending with barely a scar, but Carrington made it clear that there was nothing they could do for the cartilage damage. Drummer Boy would probably never work in the field again. But that was okay. Desdemona had a more important job for him. 

Cold air is the first herald of agents coming in from outside, followed by footsteps heavy on old stone. Quick and certain, unbalanced and shuffling- Deacon and Whisper. Drummer Boy puts on his best bullshit smile and leans against the wall, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. They’re probably just coming back from Randolph. Not a pretty situation, that safehouse, but everyone understands the necessity of getting it back online if they can. 

“Drummer Boy,” comes Whisper’s familiar rumble. He pulls his mask down as he approaches, revealing smirking scarred lips. “Need a light?”

“That’d be great.” Drummer Boy lets Whisper in close, close enough to light the cigarette between his lips and closer, until Drummer Boy can smell grease and metallic blood and hear the soft hiss of hydraulics in Whisper’s probably-damaged prosthetic arm. Deacon has disappeared somewhere to give them some privacy. A sweet gesture, but ultimately unnecessary- Drummer Boy pulls away after but a moment, smiling coyly and nodding his head towards HQ proper. “Dez is waiting for your report. And Tinker Tom has some new goodies for you, if you want to look over those while you get that arm checked out.”

That’s how it’s always been between the two of them, Whisper and Drummer Boy. Cat and Mouse since day one. Whisper, with his roaming eyes and obliviousness to personal space. Drummer Boy, always just out of reach. It’s a dynamic that confuses the everloving shit out of most other agents and worries Desdemona just as often as it amuses her, but it works. All playful fun, never any hard feelings. Drummer Boy understands how carefully balanced their relationship is, on the edge of a blade, but he also knows that life is far too short to play it safe when there’s room for risk and reward. Whisper wouldn’t be the first agent Drummer Boy would have a falling out over something as simple as unreciprocated attraction- or reciprocated attraction that ultimately went nowhere- and he knows how to keep a relationship professional when that happens. 

The trick, though, is that Drummer Boy simultaneously knows exactly where this will go and has no idea how. Every time he thinks that he’s pushed Whisper to the limit of the agent’s patience, every time he thinks that maybe Whisper is finally going to  _ do something _ , the agent backs off. Gives them both space to cool down. Reset. Comes back later, sure, but from a different angle. And no matter how many times it happens (a total of three, to date), Drummer Boy is thrown off by it every time. 

“I think your best bet is to just roll with it,” Glory says, eyeing up Whisper from across the room over the rim of her glass. Drummer Boy makes a little humming noise in the back of his throat and tries not to choke on whatever shit Glory’s poured for him- the bottle says “vodka”, but the taste says “naked in an alley with an aftertaste of regret”. They’ve earned a night of shitfaced celebrations, Drummer Boy supposes, after the kind of mission it took to get H2-22 out of the Commonwealth. Two safehouses, three deaddrops,  _ four _ route changes, but here they are, successful, toasting to a synth’s new and hopefully peaceful life. 

“A guy like him? You’d be dumb to throw away that kind of prize,” Glory says, musing, like she’s definitely thought about it. A spark of jealousy rises in in Drummer Boy’s chest, fast and bright as flash-powder before he can stamp it out again. Whisper belongs to nothing and no one, and Drummer Boy has no right to jealousy. 

Glory notes the change in Drummer Boy’s mood and, wisely, says nothing more. 

With the first snows come new dangers. Most synths are unaccustomed to the cold, and thus moving them without them succumbing to disease or hypothermia is a challenge in and of itself. Ice forms quickly on the pavement, often clear or covered by snow or otherwise undetectable until you step right on it. And then there’s the Brotherhood of Steel overhead and the increased vertibird presence in the sky and power-armored presence on the ground, making night runs even more necessary and dangerous. With runners moving by day and agents and packages moving by night, Drummer Boy doesn’t get much sleep. 

Drummer Boy doesn’t even realize how bad the pain has gotten until he reaches for the bottle of pills stashed in his desk and finds it empty. He allows himself a moment of indulgence, rubbing at the sore joint for a moment as he weighs his options. Carrington doesn’t approve of Drummer Boy’s painkiller intake and likely won’t give him another bottle. Tinker Tom’s stashes are plentiful, but it’s often hard to know what exactly you’re getting from the man. Or, he could just suck it up, go without until the month ends and Carrington is obligated to fork over another month’s supply. It wouldn’t be a long wait, either. Maybe a week, though Drummer Boy’s lost track of the day again. A week and a half at most, and that might be pushing Drummer Boy’s tolerance for pain, but he’s fairly certain he can do it. Fairly certain.

Two more packages out of Randolf, one out of Ticonderoga. High Rise wants to vouch for a tourist, make them into an agent if he gets the okay from HQ. Drummer Boy sighs and makes a note of it in the margins. He’ll have to get out to Ticonderoga the next time there’s an idle agent to escort him. Not that Drummer Boy can’t handle himself perfectly well even with his busted hip, but he’s far too valuable to the Railroad for them to risk it. There are only two other people who know the faces and names of all agents and the locations of all safehouses, after all. A slip up from any of them could bring the whole operation down around their heads. It happened at Switchboard, and they lost three safehouses and countless agents and tourists because of it. It cannot happen again.

“Take Whisper with you,” Desdemona says when Drummer Boy approaches her with the file. “If High Rise vouches for this tourist, I’m inclined to trust them. Still, we can never be too cautious. Confirm it, put the tourist through the wringer, then report back. And Drummer Boy?” She reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a bottle of pills. “They’re not candy, you know. Be careful.” 

Vertibirds thrum overhead when Drummer Boy and Whisper exit HQ. They wait until they’re a few streets over and off their target before they feel safe enough to stop sneaking- better safe than burning out the Church. With the Brotherhood patrols in the ruins, there are a lot less raiders and supermutants roaming the streets and infesting the buildings. There is, however, a new tension drawing tight in the air, a tripwire holding a bouquet of grenades. Drummer Boy can feel it all around him, creeping into his bones like the cold, wrapping tight around his chest and stabbing at all the places that make him hurt. 

Ticonderoga is, by far, the largest and most obvious of the Railroad’s safehouses. It also, thankfully, the most well defended- it takes a series of passwords to get the front doors open, the backdoor opens into the subways beneath the tower, and it’s packed with agents and heavies all hours of the day. Drummer Boy gets the feeling that the only reason the Institute hasn’t sank the place yet is because they can’t get close to it before High Rise shuts the place up like a Vault against a drugged-up raider. The only way a synth gets in is as a package. Or if they’re an agent, but synth agents are few and far between. Drummer Boy can count their numbers on one hand. 

_ Tiraide. Multiply. Perception _ . 

Drummer Boy steps away from the terminal as the gates roll open to reveal the doors to the safehouse. Not the normal way he gets in, but he’s cold and sore and more than a little bit irritated and  _ really _ doesn’t feel like going the long way around. High Rise is just inside the doors, talking to one of the agents assigned to moving the Randolph package. Rose Gold, a pretty-faced boy from Diamond City with a smile of filed teeth. It’s been a long while since Drummer Boy and Rose Gold have met face-to-face, and once Rose Gold reports back to Randolph it will probably be long while before they see each other again. 

“Hey! If it isn’t my favorite informant!” High Rise greets, pulling Drummer Boy into a messy hug. Drummer Boy winces when the action throws his weight onto his bad leg. It’s nice, though. High Rise and Drummer Boy had been good friends before the former had been permanently assigned to Ticonderoga and the latter to HQ. He can let his weight fall a little on High Rise, let the man lead him towards the main room and a couch to sit on. They have a lot to talk about, catching up on small talk the last of their priorities. 

The new potential agent is a tall, proud looking woman with hair more brown than red. High Rise pulls her from the kitchen, a can of cram still in her hand. Whisper stiffens, the leather of the couch squeaking as his fingers clench and slide. 

“ _ Haylen _ ?” Whisper demands, pulling down his mask. “What the-?”

“ _ Max _ ?” Haylen hisses, brows beetling in confusion and, slightly, anger. “You’re… Oh my God.” Drummer Boy has to lean back from Haylen and a little away from Whisper- Haylen’s anger is a potent thing, all hissing and bared fangs. “You’re  _ Railroad _ ? For how-? Since the beginning. Since the beginning, right? That’s why you-”

“Saved Danse?” Whisper offers. Drummer Boy can  _ hear _ the smirk in the man’s voice. “Back-talked Maxson so often? Punched Quinlan in the face? Take your pick.” There’s a pause. Haylen’s face is conflicted, pained. “You’re here too, Haylen. The Brotherhood is the problem, not the solution.”

“Then why did you help them in the first place?” Haylen asks. The room goes quiet. Everyone- even Haylen, probably- knows why Whisper helped the Brotherhood. He’s the only agent capable of undercover work in both the Brotherhood and the Institute. His sole purpose there is to collect information and mislead their leaders- no doubt one of the most dangerous and precarious missions ever given to a Railroad heavy. Drummer Boy hopes that it hasn’t set a precedent for what kind of missions new agents will be receiving. Whisper is a bit of an outlier, having gone from tourist to agent to heavy in the span of a few months.

Haylen storms off. Only once they can hear the rumble of the elevator does anyone relax. Whisper sighs, leaning heavily against the back of the couch. 

“You know her, then?” Drummer Boy wonders, idly making notes on the file he’s made for the potential agent. Ex-Brotherhood is a mark against her, but her relation to Danse (Unit M7-97, a classic Institute horror story from the sound of it) and Whisper might work in her favor. Might. If they can play it right.

“And I can vouch for her,” Whisper grumbles, dropping his head and bumping it against Drummer Boy’s. Tired. Probably exhausted, really. Drummer Boy dares to reach up and card his hand through the heavy’s thick black hair. It’s sweaty, grimy, but terribly soft. Drummer Boy wonders what it’ll feel like after a nice visit to Ticonderoga’s hot showers. “Haylen is incredibly intelligent, has an excellent memory and knowledge of field medicine. She’s a good enough aim with a laser pistol, but I wouldn’t call her heavy material. Not without more training. And she probably won’t be going back to the Brotherhood anytime soon. They’ve got a standing KOS out on any deserters.” He tips his head into Drummer Boy’s hand, practically purring. 

It strikes Drummer Boy that they’re in the middle of Ticonderoga’s main room where anyone and everyone could be watching. He wonders if anyone really cares. “KOS?”

“Kill on sight. Standard for times of martial law.” Whisper sighs heavily. “The only thing that might bring her back is Knight Rhys, and they, well… That’s between those two.”

Drummer Boy hums and makes a note of that as well. For now, Haylen is sitting even; her former allegiance to the Brotherhood of Steel and relationship with Knight Rhys count against her for the moment, but both High Rise and Whisper are vouching for her. At this point, it’s down to how she performs, and even if her performance is stellar Drummer Boy has his hesitations. A relationship is a dangerous weakness to have. If they’ve had a falling out, then Drummer Boy doesn’t see the problem, but if there’s still affection then there is still a possible and very dangerous breach of security. He wonders if it still counts as fraternization with the enemy if the relationship is pre-existing. Probably. Most likely. He jots it down to ask Desdemona later. 

Ticonderoga is regularly busy, but Drummer Boy has never seen it quite  _ this _ busy. He supposes it’s to be expected- with the Brotherhood of Steel hovering overhead, HQ has put out instructions that agents are to limit traffic in and out of safehouses, with means that people going in are going to stay longer and that people going out are going to have to prepare for longer excursions. Only heavies and Alphas are exempt from the mandate, which means that while Drummer Boy has free passage in and out, his runners do not. He sighs heavily, fishing out another piece of paper to start brainstorming places to use as meetups. The next few months will involve a lot of trips out into the Commonwealth, Drummer Boy supposes. He wonders if he might be able to get a heavy permanently assigned to his entourage, then banishes the thought. They’re too spread out at the moment to waste one of their best operatives on bodyguard duty. 

“Alright,” Whisper says suddenly, startling Drummer Boy, which causes his hand to jerk and his pencil to draw a scraggly line across his paper. Thankfully not across his work, but the mere concept is enough to make Drummer Boy huff in irritation. 

“‘Alright’ what?” he demands, begrudgingly letting himself be bustled to his feet. His hip twinges from being held in an uncomfortable position for far too long; Drummer Boy’s posture has always been shit, and a comfortable, squishy couch with a low table really doesn’t do anything to help. 

“Shower time,” Whisper says like it’s a bygone conclusion, something Drummer Boy should have already known. “I let you keep working because it looked like there was a lot of people going in and out, but now that everyone’s either eating or sleeping we might actually have the showers to ourselves. Not a lot of hot water left, probably, but hey, we can’t have everything, right?” When Drummer Boy just blinks in confusion, Whisper flashes that bright smile that almost earned him the codename “Charmer” (actually, Deacon’s suggestion was initially “Sunshine”, but Charmer was a quick second). 

“It’ll help with the ache, the hot water,” Whisper says, soft and low, like he’s concerned someone else will hear. Not likely- all the rooms are upstairs, and the noise from the kitchens guarantees that any eavesdroppers will have to work for it. Still, it’s the thought that counts, and it’s a sweet gesture. “If you’re anything like me, the cold’s been hurting you pretty bad. Painkillers are nice and all, but a hot shower? Let me tell you, there’s nothing better in the world.”

So maybe Whisper wasn’t exaggerating too much; Drummer Boy can think of a few things better in the world than the feeling of a hot shower, but it still feels pretty damn good. Helps work out the knots of tension in Drummer Boy’s muscles that he didn’t even realize were there until they start unwinding. He gets a short five minutes of hot water before the tank begins to run out and the stream turns lukewarm, but it’s five minutes of bliss. Drummer Boy sighs when he finally turns off the shower, wrapping his towel tightly around himself to keep the heat in. 

Whisper, for all his strength, is really rather bird-built, surprisingly delicate and thin beneath all his armor and thick clothing. Broad shoulders and a gracefully tapered waist, but still thin-boned and just on this side of skinny. Drummer Boy gets to enjoy the play of light off tight muscle and wet skin for a moment before his eyes catch on the metal that shows on the surface of Whisper’s skin. It takes all of his self control not to reach out and run his fingers down the curve of stainless steel that is Whisper’s left shoulder. Took a grenade to the side during the siege on Anchorage, or so Whisper claims. The damage is consistent- ruined ribs and knee, completely missing arm. The doctors had to entirely replace one of his lungs. He’d been lucky to get away without any damage to his heart or digestive tract, because that might have killed him then and there. 

Instead, he survived. Persevered, even after his body had been torn apart and almost carelessly cobbled back together again. Most of Whisper’s left side is metal and scar tissue. Only some of the reconstruction was visible, mostly in well-protected places to allow for maintenance access- the ribs, the shoulder, the back of the knee. Beneath the eyepatch, his left eye is fogged glass, drooping slightly where the damage didn’t quite heal right and pocketed in places from stitches that were probably torn and replaced multiple times. Drummer Boy doesn’t realize what he’s doing until his fingers are dancing along the tight, plastic-like flesh. He marvels at the texture, at the movement of muscles beneath as Whisper’s eyes flutter closed. 

Whisper.  _ Max _ . Drummer Boy feels like a thief, holding something precious that most certainly belongs to someone else. Once you become an agent, your name becomes the most valuable thing you own. It becomes the only thing you own, really. Because it’s the one thing that no one can take from you. Because it’s the first and last thing the Institute can use against you.  _ Max _ . Drummer Boy lets it fall off his lips like a half-reverent prayer and wonders at the shiver that passes down Whisper’s spine. Lets the fingers of his other hand curl against Whisper’s shoulder, fingers pressing into and against the grooves and ridges of scars where a deathclaw got a bit too close for comfort. Lets Whisper get close, so close, until he can smell the clean soap and soft musk of Whisper’s skin.

The first press of lips is gentle, hesitant, testing the waters. A bit uncoordinated- their noses bump, and Drummer Boy’s hip complains a bit when he lifts himself onto his toes to get the right angle. The second kiss is better, harder. Whisper leans down a bit, bears down on Drummer Boy, bites on the third and licks on the fourth and it’s  _ so much better _ . Gun-calloused hands push the towel off Drummer Boy’s shoulder, slide down the planes of his back- not nearly as sculpted as Whisper’s, since it’s been a long time since Drummer Boy has been in the field. He’s gotten soft. From the press of Whisper’s fingers, the hum in the agent’s throat, Whisper doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

Voices from down the hallway. Whisper leaves Drummer Boy with one last, cautious nip against his lower lip before drawing away, collecting clothes and acting as though nothing has happened. It’s a long moment more before Drummer Boy can do the same.  _ Something _ has changed, though, even if neither of them are going to acknowledge it in the moment. Their careful balance has been tipped on one direction, and this time there’s not going to be any stepping back into safety. All that’s left is a leap of faith into uncertainty, however long that takes. 

Drummer Boy goes back to work, tries to get as much done as he can before exhaustion inevitably overtakes him. The smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen is tempting, but he refrains; better that he  sleep at some point, if they’re going to take Haylen out in the morning. He has a few locations of already-collected DIA’s that they could use as trial runs- “they” being Haylen and Whisper, of course. Maybe run them along a route with a deaddrop, see if she can keep to a route and pick out the Railroad signs. Drummer Boy sighs, dropping his head in his hands. As much as he appreciates being trusted enough to oversee the initiation of new agents, he  _ hates _ this part. 

It’s what has to be done, though. Drummer Boy traces out the route on a blank map of Boston, noting only major points like Ticonderoga and the skyscraper and some of the Brotherhood hotspots. The route runs them pretty close to the hotspot that he doesn’t mark, and that’ll be a challenge in and of itself. Drummer Boy is expecting deviation there- an agent has to know when a part of a route is compromised and how to improvise a new route that reaches the same destination with mitigated risk. Drummer Boy knows that he’s stacking the cards against Haylen, but he also realizes that the entire point of this is to test her readiness for… well, maybe not the  _ worst _ to go wrong on a run, because that’s Coursers, but for something to go  _ bad _ on a run. At least he put the deaddrop somewhere before the hotzone so they won’t  _ have _ to meet up again with the plotted route.

The clock reads three in the morning before Drummer Boy is finally done. He drops against the back of the couch with a huff, only barely remembering to set the alarm on his wristwatch to five before falling asleep. Not the best position he’s ever slept in, but certainly not the worst, and at this point he’s just too damn tired to care. 


	2. Step Beyond the Veil

Drummer Boy is still tired as shit when he wakes up, the alarm on his wrist beeping in what is quite possibly the most aggravating pattern in the world. There’s a moment when Drummer Boy just lies there, staring at the ceiling and wishing he could melt into the couch. It’s not like he’s going to be able to relax while Whisper and Haylen are out; Drummer Boy’s work is never really done, and he can tell that more runners have left their packages just in the few hours of sleep he’s grabbed. There’s still no news from Randolph since the last package. Hopefully everything’s okay. It’d be a damn shame to lose them too, especially after everything they’ve done to try and get the safehouse back online. 

Whisper’s fingers curl around Drummer Boy’s neck, his lips brushing the informant’s cheek for but a moment before he’s moving out the door. Haylen spends a few moments looking between them with confusion before she follows the heavy out the door. That’s alright, though; Drummer Boy is just as confused as she is. He can swear he still feels the trace warmth on his cheek for hours afterwards, though, honestly, that might just be the blush he can’t seem to shake. 

Paper hisses as Drummer Boy lights his cigarette. He’s been cutting back these last few months, especially after supply runs to HQ slowed down to almost non-existent. Everything they have down there had to be pulled from the surrounding buildings. Rare commodities- Fancy Lad cakes, fresh foods, alcohol,  _ cigarettes _ \- are saved for special occasions. Well, maybe not the cigarettes. Those are more for when everything goes to shit and tension levels are running especially high. Dez and Drummer Boy happen to be the most prolific consumers, but a few of the other heavies smoke their fair share. 

“You know how much I hate that,” High Rise grumbles, leaning against the back of the couch. Drummer Boy shrugs, tossing a middle finger over his shoulder as he taps the ash into the ceramic dish. The outer doors rumble as they open. Odd. Drummer Boy didn’t hear any-

Shit.

High Rise is moving even as Drummer Boy does, barking orders at the other agents as Drummer Boy kicks the panic button beneath the coffee table and starts for the files. The front exit is probably pinned down by synths even with the defense system revving up, but the back entrance will probably still be clear for the next few minutes, and Drummer Boy’s runners are the fastest on foot. Everything vital- deaddrops, agent files, package info- will go out with them. Everything else will burn with the safehouse. 

Deliverer fits uncomfortably well in Drummer Boy’s hand, and he takes to resting it on his knee while he shoves documents into the fire in the stove. It’s the gun that Tommy Whispers taught Drummer Boy how to shoot with. He hadn’t wanted to accept it from Whisper at first, but the man had been insistent, saying that a standard .38 round from a pipe-pistol wouldn’t do “jack-shit” against someone in power armor. Drummer Boy is glad to have the handcannon now, if only because it gives him something of a fighting chance. 

“Something of a fighting chance”. Drummer Boy snorts to himself, tries to keep down the panic that’s trying to bubble its way up his throat. Ticonderoga doesn’t have a lick of a fighting chance if those synths get through the door. The panic button is supposed to send an automated distress along the radio, but there’s no telling how long it might take for HQ to get together a counterstrike. If they can get one together at all, because if Drummer Boy goes down with this safehouse, half of the Railroad’s information network goes down with him. He just hopes enough gets to Carrington and Dez for them to salvage it. 

There’s a Courser out there. Drummer Boy can hear the certainty of its footsteps, the chill of its voice as it barks orders to the synths. Only three of the surviving heavies have ever taken down a Courser before: Glory on her rescue route, when she decided that she’d rather fight for the Railroad than leave the Commonwealth; Charmer when he killed the Courser and stole the chip from the back of its head, giving them the information necessary to get into the Institute; and Deacon back at Switchboard, shooting the thing off Drummer Boy and emptying a clip into its head before he pulled the informant out of there. Drummer Boy starts moving up through the safehouse, knowing that the other agents have probably scattered and barricaded themselves for the fight. He checks the ammo in Deliverer as he does- a single shot through the neck can cripple a Courser’s systems if he can pull it off. That’s a very big “if”, though. 

As the door shudders and gives way, Drummer Boy wonders where Whisper is, how the agent is doing out there. He wonders if the heavy might have noticed the new radio station appearing on his Pip-boy, if Whisper might have already heard the distress call. He hopes not. Whatever the Institute leaves here, it’s not going to be pretty. 

They killed everyone else. Drummer Boy knows this because High Rise would have kicked and screamed and struggled until they finally put a bullet in his head. Rose Gold and Ivy and Fog would have put their guns to their own heads before ever letting the Institute take them alive. The other tourists probably weren’t worth anything, not the the Courser. But Drummer Boy? The only reason he isn’t dead is because they grabbed him before he could pull the trigger. It would have been real ugly if they hadn’t; despite its size, Deliverer packs one damn hell of a punch.

It’s information the Courser wants. Drummer Boy stares resolutely at the wall behind the Courser’s head, counts backwards from a thousand in more and more creative ways as time passes. They haven’t moved him from the safehouse. They’ve turned the place over, inside out, but whatever they’re looking for they haven’t yet found. Drummer Boy has no idea what they’re looking for. After he realized it’s information they want, he stopped listening. It’s making the Courser aggravated. It’s making the Courser nervous. Why would it be nervous? At least half of its directive has been completed. Unless the item they’re looking for is of such importance that the scientists will punish it if it fails to complete the directive entirely. 

When Drummer Boy remains silent, they resort to pain. The thing they don’t quite understand is that pain is an old friend of Drummer Boy’s. Pain met him shortly after Switchboard, gave him gifts of nausea and fever. Pain coiled in Drummer Boy’s body, making its home in his bones and in his muscles and even when it seemed like pain was gone it always promised to come back.

_ “It’s not worth it, you know _ ,” Blackbird says, and Drummer Boy can swear he feels the phantom sensation of rough hands smoothing his hair. Blackbird is lying, though, because he knows the value of persevering in the face of pain probably more than anyone. Blackbird died protecting Railroad secrets, and he’d probably do it again if given the chance.

“ _ Just give up _ ,” Sly Nick says, and it’s a brush of knuckles against the cheek this time. But he’s a liar too, because it was Sly Nick who taught Drummer Boy the value of never giving up. Sly Nick taught Drummer Boy that giving up means putting other people in the line of fire, and that’s unacceptable. 

“ _ You’re going to die here _ ,” Maven says, an arm over Drummer Boy’s shoulders. And hey, at least she’s being real about what’s about to happen. Never one for sugarcoating the truth or cutting corners on honesty, Maven. 

_ “You’ve failed them _ ,” Dutchman says, brushing a hand over Drummer Boy’s eyes. Except, Drummer Boy hasn’t failed anyone yet. So long as he keeps his mouth shut, he won’t.

“ _ You’re just delaying the inevitable _ ,” Helena says, and Drummer Boy smiles. Good. Delay the inevitable. Delay it for as long as possible. Because so long as it hasn’t happened yet, there’s a chance that it won’t.

“ _ You’ve done enough for them _ ,” Tommy Whispers says, and Drummer Boy shakes his head. No. Drummer Boy could die for the Railroad and that still wouldn’t be enough. After everything they’ve done for him, eternity couldn’t be enough.

“ _ I’m here now. I’ve got you _ ,” Whisper says, and that almost makes Drummer Boy break and cry. The Institute can take Blackbird, and Sly Nick, and Maven and Dutchman and Helena and even Tommy Whispers. They’re already long gone. Drummer Boy has already mourned them. But Whisper?

“Why did they have to take you too?” Drummer Boy gasps out. He forces one eye open, winces when it cracks the blood holding his lashes together. His hands are free, somehow- maybe the Courser thought him too weak to try anything. It’s right. Drummer Boy barely has the energy to reach the last few inches towards the phantom of Whisper before him. Whisper feels real, and that’s maybe the worst part. If he  _ felt _ like an illusion, Drummer Boy might have been able to ignore it. But Drummer Boy’s fingernails catch on worn leather, gun-calloused hands making him flinch when then press against tender flesh, and Drummer Boy can feel his eyes burn with the weight of unshed tears. “They took everyone else. Why’d they have to take you too?”

Whisper reaches out, nails scraping Drummer Boy’s bloodied and sensitive scalp as he cradles the informant’s face.  _ “Stay with me, please. I’m right here, I promise, _ ” he says, forgiveness on the lips of an angel, and Drummer Boy can’t keep his eyes open any longer. 

_ “No! No, stay with me please. Please! Haylen, get a-!” _

Drummer Boy opens his eyes to the roof of the catacombs and decides right then and there that, if this is Heaven, he wants none of it. He’s paid his dues, met his demons in purgatory and called them out on their shit. As much as he loves and owes the Railroad, he’d  _ really _ rather spend eternity  _ anywhere else _ . Okay, maybe not  _ anywhere _ else. But he has ideas as to where he’d rather spend eternity. 

Then Carrington enters his field of view, and Drummer Boy has to face the truth of the situation. It sinks heavy in his chest, concrete into a pond. He survived. He survived when everyone else didn’t. “A fucking miracle,” Carrington calls it, the rare curse marring his usual elegant accent. He wraps a hand around Drummer Boy’s wrist- wrist, not hand, because Drummer Boy can feel the thickness of bandages around that- and his fingers dimple Drummer boy’s pulse point for a single moment of heartbreaking honesty. 

Four days. He’d been out for four days, kept under another three. There are bruises from the fluid drip in his left arm, the one not broken. Five of his fingers are broken across both hands. His right arm had to be broken again and reset- the last well-meaning stimpack from Haylen had been one too many, an honest mistake that had resulted in the broken bone fusing wrong. Sometime during that event, his right kneecap had slipped. He’s suffered a score of surface wounds as well. There’s no telling what kind of damage has occurred in his soft tissue. Though blood loss and shock have slowed his healing, Carrington is hopeful that none of the damage will be lasting. 

“Do we know what they were looking for?” Drummer Boy asks, his voice rasping like sandpaper. He’s sitting up against the wall, a bowl of noodles resting in his lap; eating is a bit of a trial, honestly, but Drummer Boy refuses to let anyone feed him. He almost bit Glory when she tried. 

Carrington smiles, all sharp teeth and victory, and pats the black metal box on his work desk. “Old Switchboard technology,” he explains. “The delivery boy had to go through Ticonderoga before getting it here. I suppose they just assumed Ticonderoga was the final destination.”

Drummer Boy nods as much as he is able- his neck hurts still from the burns, but those are healing too. He remembers that package, though. Since Deacon and Whisper broke in and grabbed the prototype, synth activity in that area has only increased, and that damn freak of nature heavy Edi had almost gotten herself killed getting the blackbox data store out. There are still things left in Switchboard that can help them, hidden behind doors only Railroad members would know, but Dez is hesitant to send anyone back there until it cools off a little bit. If it ever cools off. 

The Railroad lost an entire safehouse and all hands inside. The Institute had lost a squad of synths and not one but  _ two _ Coursers. Whisper’s codename hangs on every agent’s lips, spoken in hushed tones with awe and amazement. He’s become the most prolific heavy in Railroad history, with a report even more impressive than Sly Nick’s had been in his time. It’s not just in Courser eliminations either- Whisper has successfully infiltrated both the Brotherhood of Steel and the Institute  _ at the same time _ . With someone like him on our side, they murmur, haven’t we already won?

Since Drummer Boy can no longer meet agents, at least not for a while, the agents come to him. Carrington lets Drummer Boy have a desk next to the cot where he sleeps, lets him take reports and schedule drops, but limits him to eight working hours a day. He’s not even allowed to  _ read _ reports outside of that time period. Carrington picks up the slack, or Dez, or sometimes even Deacon when the man is around. But until he can walk on his own without crutches, Carrington insists that Drummer Boy still needs to rest and recover. 

Whisper is in and out during that time. Apparently bringing Drummer Boy back from Ticonderoga was more than enough to bump Haylen-  _ Victory _ \- into the position of an agent. Whisper has been running her through the wringer, trying to get her heavy-ready. He tells Drummer Boy all about it, sitting at the end of the cot or at the informant’s side, helping with the physical therapy. Warm touches still linger, kisses still flutter against Drummer Boy’s hair, but there’s an edge of hesitance to them now. Guilt. Regret. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Drummer Boy says one day as Whisper helps him up the ramp. There’s no one around to listen but PAM, and she’s servos-deep in whatever she’s calculating this time. Something about survival statistics for their assault on the institute, maybe, but Drummer Boy didn’t catch all of it when she started. He does catch, however, the step that Whisper misses, the way the heavy’s hands tighten around his middle. Drummer Boy lets his head fall a bit to one side, bumping against Whisper’s shoulder. “You did everything you could.  _ We _ did everything we could.”

“You could have died in there,” Whisper grits out, urging Drummer Boy the last few steps. Drummer Boy can walk mostly on his own now, so long as the floor is mostly flat, but between his hip and the new knee damage his right leg is completely shot. He’s going to have to relearn how to walk steadily, especially up stairs. Running is out of the question for the foreseeable future. Whisper pulls Drummer Boy against his chest, tucks the informant’s head under his own chin. “Carrington said that if we had waited just a little bit longer, we might not have been able to save you. I would have  _ lost you _ .” 

A bubble of panic rises in Drummer Boy’s throat at the reminder, but he swallows it down. He’s here now. He’s alive. He murmurs this reminder against Whisper’s collarbone, lets his arms circle the agent’s waist and his hands rest on the small of Whisper’s back. They’re alive, both of the, Whisper and Drummer Boy. They’re still here, alive, fighting. And even if it’s not perfect, even if it’s not  _ okay _ , all that matters is that they’re  _ alive _ .

Glory clears her throat at the politely at the door, eyes alight with mischief. “Desdemona says to get ready,” she says to Whisper, moving past the both of them to access PAM’s terminal. “She wants to be together and ready to move by oh-five hundred.”

Whisper cocks an eyebrow, shifting Drummer Boy so that the informant’s weight can be supported by one arm and- oh, that’s actually kind of impressive. Drummer Boy had never really put much thought into it, but Whisper’s prosthetic arm is  _ powerful _ . He could probably hold Drummer Boy up against the wall and not even break a sweat, and isn’t  _ that _ a nice thought. 

“Alpha’s coming with us?” Whisper wonders, pulling Drummer Boy out of whatever he was thinking- fucking hell, what  _ was _ he thinking? 

“You honestly think that a adrenaline junky like Desdemona is going to sit out on the infiltration of a lifetime?” Glory laughed, harsh and honest. “Man, you’ve got a lot to learn kid. She’d probably rather take a bath in the Slog’s pool than miss this.” 

Drummer Boy snorts, loud and inelegant. Glory’s got a point, though; Dez might be a cautious leader, a stickler for rules and safety, but there is definitely a side of her that’s still new-minted-agent young and eager for some action. She was probably chomping at the bit to find a way to get herself onto this operation. Drummer Boy is not looking forward to picking up her slack while she’s out, but he is happy for her. This is something they have to do, then at least one of them needs to have fun with it. 

A pile of reports greets Drummer Boy when Whisper gently helps him back onto his cot. He could probably move back to his old office towards the back entrance at this point, but he appreciates having Carrington so close- the doctor really is a genius, when he isn’t ripping Drummer Boy’s ideas apart. Whisper takes Drummer Boy’s face gently in his hands, kisses him soundly on the mouth like this is the last time they’re going to see each other. It could be the last time they see each other. The knowledge twists in Drummer Boy’s heart like a knife. 

“Come back to me,” Drummer Boy whispers, emphatic, letting his fingers curl in Whisper’s-  _ Max’s _ \- hair. “Come back to me, you hear? Don’t let them take you too.” 

“They won’t take me,” Whisper murmurs against Drummer Boy’s skin, promises as empty as the cans the man hoards. “I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.” 

Teeth too blunt to cut dig into Drummer Boy’s collarbone. Drummer Boy gasps at the pain, revels in it. A parting gift. Something to remember Whisper by. It’ll definitely leave a mark, just low enough to hide but just high enough to rub against the collar of Drummer Boy’s undershirt. A promise. Drummer Boy lets his nails scrape roughly against Whisper’s scalp when the man laves at the mark with his tongue. Staking  _ claim _ , in the middle of HQ, with a dozen or so pairs of eyes watching. Whisper wants them to  _ know _ , all of them. The knowledge makes Drummer Boy’s blood run and burn like jet-fuel, all bright and hot. 

“You owe me,” Drummer Boy hisses when Whisper pulls away, a self-satisfied smirk on the agent’s lips. It stretches into a grin, flashing those perfect Vault-Tec-advertising teeth and canines like a damn wolf.

“Is that a promise, Drummer Boy?” Whisper purrs, all rich and sweet like honey, and leaves Drummer Boy flushing bright red in his wake. 

HQ has never been so empty. Tinker Tom, Dez, Deacon, Glory, Whisper, a few extra agents- Drummer Boy sees about three people including himself and Carrington, and that’s kind of disturbing. Merry-Winter has to turn on Diamond City Radio to fill the silence. There’s nothing then can do, really, other than what they’ve always been doing. Merry-Winter works the radio. Gear sits beside PAM and listens to whatever the machine spouts. Carrington and Drummer Boy sit and work through reports, arranging package runs and deaddrops. 

“Are there even rules about fraternization around here?” Carrington wonders, tapping his pen quietly against the edge of a worn manila folder. Drummer Boy hums, stealing the cap from Carrington and chewing on it. The doctor is staring at That Spot beneath the informant’s scarf, Drummer Boy can tell.

“I don’t think we thought that far ahead,” Drummer Boy admits, honestly, because they really didn’t. When the Railroad was first forming, “fraternization” was pretty far down the list, and Drummer Boy isn’t really certain if any Alpha since has addressed it. “Don’t fraternize with the enemy” has been a pretty standard rule, as has “don’t let it get in the way of work” and "don't get caught with your pants down", but beyond that Drummer Boy isn’t aware of any set-in-stone lines in the non-existent Railroad Rulebook. 

“Don’t fuck the Courser,” Merry-Winter pipes in from the ham radio.

“Don’t fuck the Brotherhood!” comes Gear’s nasally voice. Carrington chuckles, shaking his head and holding out a hand for his pen-cap back. 

“I’m sorry I asked.”

It’s twelve tense hours before anything happens. Drummer Boy feels it first, as perceptive as he is- the shaking in every stone. He throws himself off his cot, staggering when his leg doesn’t hold him quite right. Carrington is at his side in moments, helping him out the escape tunnel and into the freezing air. 

A nuclear meltdown resulting in a massive explosion. It lights up the horizon in a burning orange glow, like the summer wildfire that swept the Commonwealth a few years ago. Drummer Boy feels his breath catch in his chest. It feels like the entire Wasteland is silent for a single, long moment before they begin to realize what exactly is going on. Vertibirds thrum in the air as the Brotherhood mobilises. In a single moment, the Railroad has shaken the Commonwealth by its roots. 

_ Bring them home _ , Drummer Boy thinks to the sky, to whoever is up there watching.  _ Bring the agents, bring the synths, bring my Max home _ . Because if they do not come home, Drummer Boy promises, he will burn this world to the ground. He will burn this world to the ground and he will not regret a single moment of it. 


	3. Again and Again

Mercer Safehouse is the first to report synth and agent recovery. Next is Goodneighbor and Amari, who demands help in that aggravated, harsh tone of hers that says she’s absolutely overwhelmed. Drummer Boy sends Gear to deal with that particular problem- with his silver tongue and gilded heart, Gear should have no problem talking good Mayor Hancock into giving them a hand. The Minutemen send out a message on Radio Freedom not hours later: any synth or Railroad agent seeking asylum is welcome at any Minutemen-aligned settlement. Merry-Winter is quick on the draw, establishing radio contact and feeding Drummer Boy a whole new pile of information. He then turns around and tells her to put out a directive that makes all of the Minutemen operators in the affected area tourists, because hey, why not? Everything else has already gone to Hell in a handbasket, and they can definitely use the extra hands.

Relations with the Brotherhood of Steel suddenly go from “tense” to “explosive”, with tourists and Knights only breaths away from tearing each other’s throats out at any given moment. Carrington puts out a standing directive not to engage the Brotherhood in any way or form until HQ gives the okay. Hopefully the word gets out in time. Hopefully the Minutemen listen. Drummer Boy is working a lot on hope and faith at this point.

It’s forty-five hours post-detonation that HQ finally gets their first wave of synths and agents- Dez, with three synths on her heels, and Whisper flanked by two shell-shocked looking Coursers and followed by a young boy of maybe ten. Tinker Tom too, though the man is perhaps more subdued than Drummer Boy has ever seen. It was Tinker Tom who caused the meltdown, Drummer Boy realizes as the mad engineer drops onto his bed in the corner and doesn’t get up, the only sign of his continued life the too-quick rise and fall of his chest. What a weight that’s gotta be.

The young boy has Whisper’s thick black hair and sharp features undisguisable even by his layer of lingering baby fat. He smiles up at Drummer Boy, all bright eyes aqua-blue like the tenerife sea, all innocent like youth and spring. “Shaun”. Drummer Boy feels his heart choke up his throat as he drops to a crouch.

“Caleb,” Drummer Boy says. The name feels awkward on his lips from how long it’s been left unspoken. It’s his to give, though, so he gives it to this boy, this Shaun, and ignores the shocked and startled looks that the others give him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Shaun.”

“It doesn’t suit you,” Whisper says, looping an arm around Drummer Boy’s waist as Shaun explores HQ. The Railroad with all its codenames and secret bases must be the coolest thing to the kid. Drummer Boy knows that it would have been to him at that age. He lets out a little questioning hum in his throat, lets Whisper pull him close. “Caleb,” Whisper explains. “It feels like it doesn’t suit you.”

And that’s the trick, isn’t it? Whisper hasn’t been an agent very long, not compared to Deacon and Carrington and even Drummer Boy. He doesn’t quite understand what it’s like, creating a persona to hide behind. Having no choice but to wear a mask, all hours of the day, until the mask is all you are. Drummer Boy would agree- Caleb isn’t the person that Whisper knows, just as Max isn’t the person that Drummer Boy knows. “Caleb” doesn’t stick to Drummer Boy’s mask, just as “Drummer Boy” wouldn’t have stuck to Caleb’s. And that’s the point, Drummer Boy supposes, because the personas that the agents create technically don’t exist, and there’s no killing what was never alive in the first place.

Shaun, though? Shaun is _alive_ in all definitions of the word. Drummer Boy knows who the boy is, _what_ the boy is. Not that it makes any difference. Shaun is Shaun, synth or not. He is Whisper’s- _Max’s_ \- son. He is the reason Whisper fought, still fights, and will fight. Drummer Boy allows himself a single moment to dwell on how this might have gone differently, what might have happened to Shaun is Max had sided with the Brotherhood, or with the Institute, then banishes the thought entirely. Nothing good comes from contemplating bad things.

With the threat of the Institute gone, Desdemona makes the decision to move Railroad HQ, with the permission of the Minutemen, to the Castle, the Church becoming the North Safehouse. The next few months will require the two organizations to work very closely with one another, after all, and the Railroad need a defensible position if they intend to continue their resistance to the Brotherhood of Steel. It’s not as though the Brotherhood and the Minutemen are great friends either- from the sound of it, the Brotherhood as reduced itself to a group of high-tech raiders, harassing Minutemen settlements for supplies and assistance. Offering assistance to synths and the Railroad has no doubt already blacklisted the Minutemen in the eyes of the Brotherhood.

They move out in small groups, so that no two Alphas can be captured at the same time in the same place. Drummer Boy and Whisper first, with Shaun and the Coursers, so that they can prepare the Castle for the coming transition. Close on their heels will be Carrington, Tinker Tom, and PAM, with Deacon as their guard. Not that they will really need one- if PAM decides to focus all processes on seek and destroy, anyone in their way won’t stand chance. Per tradition, Desdemona will be the last to leave, her and Merry-Winter escorting their three synths to the Castle. Gear will remain behind to greet the two heavies- likely, Glory and Victory- who will move in and help establish the safehouse proper. With Ticonderoga gone, Northern will likely become vital to traffic in the Boston area.

Travel with Whisper is slow going- they keep to Minutemen-protected routes, traveling only in the daytime and stopping for the night only in places with plenty of friendly witnesses. Drummer Boy has to admit, the once-failing Minutemen really have turned around to make positive change in the Commonwealth. Hangman’s Alley was a piece of shit when Drummer Boy had last passed through it a couple years ago. Now it’s a thriving trading post, six to seven story shacks soaring into the air, outlining a central plaza of merchant stalls and a beautiful food-producing garden. The whole place has a very new-world elegance to it that gives Drummer Boy a great amount of hope for the Commonwealth’s future.

Hopeful or not, Drummer Boy does not sleep well on the trip. His leg pains him, stiff and uncooperative more than it is useful at this point. Without Carrington and his sleeping pills, Drummer Boy spends his nights tossing and turning. It’s not that he can’t sleep- travelling exhausts him far too easily and far more effectively than pain can keep him awake. But dreams are more nightmares more often than not, and Drummer Boy would rather not be haunted by the same demons night by night. Whisper carries Med-X in his pack, but they’re travelling with a child and that’s not the kind of example Drummer Boy wants to be setting for Shaun. Still, there’s no denying that it get’s hard fast. Days are long and tiring, the nights long and empty. When he does sleep, it’s for only a few hours, and Drummer Boy wakes in cold sweats and fear.

“Hey,” Shaun whispers. In the moonlight he is small, a shadow like his father. His small hands are holding Drummer Boy’s scarf delicately, like it’s something incredibly precious. “I thought you were cold, so I grabbed your scarf. But you’re sweating? So maybe you’re sick? You’re not sick, are you? Because all the medicine I know of was back in the Institute, and I don’t think I can get you any now.” His cherub face screws up in confusion. “I mean, I could probably synthesize some, but that would take a while, and I don’t even-”

“I’m fine, Shaun,” Drummer Boy assures, smoothing a hand over the boy’s hair. It feels like Whisper’s, but with more kitten softness. Whisper’s hair is more wiry, like a wolf’s outer coat. “I’m fine. It was just a bad dream.”

Shaun makes a face, something between confusion and annoyance. “A bad dream? How can a bad dream make you sick?”

Honestly, Drummer Boy doesn’t know the specifics of it. It’s a combination of psychology and physiology. Mind over matter. For as smart as Shaun is, Drummer Boy isn’t sure he got to the psychology section of his learning before the Institute was destroyed. That’s alright. He’s still young. He has all the time in the world to learn about everything and anything he wants to learn about. It’s all a matter of finding someone willing to teach him. And Shaun definitely takes after his father- he could talk anyone into anything if he really wanted to.

They talk until the morning comes. Drummer Boy doesn’t even realize how long it’s been until the first rays of sunlight sneak through the open boards of the shack. Morning brings fog, low and thick on the ground. It brings radstag stew, reheated from last night’s dinner and mixed with the new day’s thick broth and fresh vegetables. The settlers seem to have no problem with sharing their food. The tough-faced woman with a ladle in one hand and a knife in the other tells them to eat as much as they’d like. The amiability is repeated at almost every settlement they pass through.

The Castle is an imposing building, hulking and sturdy as it stands against the sea beyond. When people say “they just don’t making things like they used to”, this is what they mean: the Castle is a marvel of Ancient World engineering, built to stand the test of time. The parts that have crumbled or fallen the Minutemen have done an excellent job of restoring with native granite. Rose-colored arches soar over Drummer Boy’s head as he passes through the gates, great testaments to the original old and symbols of the new.

Preston Garvey is there to greet them when they reach the center of the courtyard, accompanying none other than the General of the Minutemen, Ronnie Shaw. There was no more influential figure than she in her time, and to see her back in the saddle is a gratifying thing. Drummer Boy trembles with enthusiasm when shaking her hand, watches with open-mouthed awe as she pulls Whisper into a one-armed hug.

“Max! Still alive and kickin’, I see!” General Shaw ruffles Whisper’s hair roughly, lets him struggle for a bit before finally releasing him. There’s a grin on her face that’s part happy, part feral. “I hear you’ve made new friends out there. Dangerous ones. And that you’re bringin’ ‘em all here like puppies you found at the side of the road.”

“Well, you didn’t seem to mind Dogmeat too much,” Whisper grumbles, trying to straighten his hair again. It’s no use- Drummer Boy doesn’t imagine the man’s hair will lay flat again until the man gets some water or product in it. “Or Cait,” Whisper apparently feels the need to add. “Or Danse.”

General Shaw laughs, unhesitant and unrestrained, before leading them in a circuit of the grounds. The Railroad will be allowed to set up in the mostly-unused southern wing, which is only a short walk from the southern gate. It’s not much- an office, a few beds- but Drummer Boy has certainly done more with less. According to Ronnie, they’re welcome to set up their own broadcast off the same tower as well. If at any time they need anything else, they are to take it up with Lieutenant Garvey, because the General, quote, “does not have enough goddamn time to deal with every goddamn little problem”. Drummer Boy thanks them profusely before digging out a piece of paper and a pencil in the office and setting to work.

It takes a lot to run an information network as large and complicated as the one the Railroad commands. For the most part, the three Alphas- Desdemona, Carrington, and Drummer Boy- split the load among themselves, but in times of crisis it is not uncommon for a single Alpha to be in charge of every aspect of the job. This is the first time Drummer Boy has ever had to do something like this, but leadership is thankfully an attire he wears rather well. Within a few hours, Drummer Boy turns the office into a passable HQ, complete with whiteboards of the Railsigns and marked maps of the Commonwealth. The desk in the center of the room is, at his request, replaced with a circular metal table pulled from the armory- it’s not like the Minutemen were going to use it for anything else, according to Garvey.

Deaddrops need to be coordinated, jobs handed out, tasks delegated. The Railroad has never had this many packages in play at one time before, and this crisis couldn’t have occurred at a worse time. Drummer Boy barely has the radio up and manned for two hours before word starts coming in of Brotherhood patrols harassing settlements and demanding they turn over any synths. The General’s decision is clear and final- all synths are wards of the Railroad, and therefore wards of the Minutemen. They are not and never will be considered under Brotherhood jurisdiction. It’s a declaration of war if Drummer Boy has ever heard one.

“She would have done it even if we hadn’t allied with the Railroad,” Lieutenant Garvey admits, making slight corrections to Drummer Boy’s maps to include settlements that have recently been cemented. “The Brotherhood made it clear from the day they arrived in the Commonwealth that they wish to be considered an occupying force, and there’s nothing Ronnie hates more than bullies with big mouths.”

“She has a plan to deal with them, then?” Drummer Boy wonders, because he is honestly curious. His only idea to counter the Brotherhood begins and ends with ‘take down the Prydwen’, and, according to Garvey, so does Shaw’s. Hers just has more meat behind it. Drummer Boy is willing to let them handle it for the moment. He has his hands full as it is.

Carrington thankfully arrives on the second day of Drummer Boy settling in, just early enough in the morning to catch Drummer Boy sending off his first wave of runners. Tinker Tom is with Sturges in the courtyard, apparently, PAM in the basement where she won’t be disturbed, Deacon annoying Whisper. Drummer Boy doesn’t care, not really. He steps to the side a bit, let’s Carrington take up his usual spot organizing package runs. By Drummer Boy’s estimate, about fifty percent of the synths saved from the Institute before its destruction want to go through with facial and memory reconstruction, though PAM will probably give them better numbers before the day is out. Drummer Boy is just grateful he doesn’t have to try and make heads or tails of that any more.

More synths pour into the Castle, sent by well-meaning settlements who only want them to be somewhere safe from the Brotherhood. Pretty soon, all the beds in the Castle are full, and then some. With Garvey’s help, they set up a kind of surface-acclimating program. Even in the middle of winter, there’s plenty to do with the crops and purifiers and various bits of technology around the Castle. The synths are given options as to what they might like to try, given lesson on how to survive on the surface. Drummer Boy honestly doesn’t have enough breath in his lungs or words in his head to convey the gratitude he feels towards Garvey in that moment. If the Railroad had to handle all of this on their own, Drummer Boy isn’t entirely sure they would have survived it.

Confrontation with the Brotherhood is one of those inevitable truths that Drummer Boy just really doesn’t want to deal with. Two weeks after Drummer Boy arrived at the Castle, and Desdemona is still held up in Goodneighbor with her packages. The General turns away two Brotherhood patrols during that time, but a visit from Arthur Maxson himself is something they can’t just ignore. Drummer Boy sighs heavily, hands curling into fists as he fights to ignore the pain throbbing from hip to knee. He needs to be strong. In the absence of Desdemona, the Railroad is to divert to him in situations of diplomacy- mostly because Carrington doesn’t understand the concept of  ‘delicate negotiations’, but that’s really not the point. The point is that Drummer Boy accepts Deliverer from Tinker Tom’s waiting hands, marching as best he can beside General Ronnie Shaw to meet the Elder of the Brotherhood, certain in the knowledge that Whisper and the whole of the Minutemen are standing at his back.

Maxson arrived in a vertibird. Of fucking course he did. It’s a statement of power, a giant warning in blazing lights. He wants to intimidate the Minutemen and the Railroad, force them to submit before a fight ever starts. What he achieves is a bit of the opposite, really- his vertibird is absolutely dwarfed by the battlements of the Castle, a chess piece against the greater board. The General forces Maxson to meet them in the courtyard, far from his showy ride, makes him all but bend over backwards to be granted audience her. His troops in X-01 power armor are impressive, sure, but nothing really compares to the commanding aura of a woman who’s managed to survive into her sixties against a world intent on killing her. Ronnie Shaw has looked death in the face and said, “Not today.” A kid like Maxson doesn’t even make her flinch at this point.

It’s an ultimatum, this meeting. Submit to the Brotherhood or be crushed by it, Maxson claims. Drummer Boy stands firm, though, stares straight into Maxson’s eyes and right through the mask the kid- fucking barely twenty, holy _shit_ \- is trying to wear. He does what he’s always done best. And what he sees is fear. Concern. Maxson isn’t sure he’ll be able to defeat the combined force of the Railroad and the Minutemen, subterfuge and the entire fucking Commonwealth. Drummer Boy stands firm, stares straight into Maxson’s eyes and tells the Elder to go fuck himself.

Okay, so maybe Drummer Boy is not so good at this whole ‘delicate negotiations’ thing either.

“Desdemona is going to kill you,” Carrington says as the vertibird ascends towards the Prydwen. Drummer Boy sighs, finally letting the tension drain out of his shoulder. Yeah, she is. But he’ll cross that bridge when he gets there. For now, he needs to speak with the General about what the fuck they’re going to do about the Brotherhood.

“For now-” Whisper grumbles, intercepting Drummer Boy on his way back to the southern wing and pulling him towards the shacks constructed on the seafront. They’re not great, but they’re private places to sleep if you don’t like sleeping in the Castle barracks. Or if you need some time alone. They’re good for that too. “- you are going to sleep. And I don’t want to hear a word of complaint out of you. You’ve been working for thirty-two hours straight now.”

Drummer Boy, wisely, shuts his mouth before any words can make it out. Whisper is in one of Those Moods, when his parental instincts start scratching at the door and he needs to take them out on the people he doesn’t think are taking care of themselves. Drummer Boy can’t tell if those moods have gotten worse or better since Shaun. He supposes it doesn’t really matter; the mattress is wonderfully soft and inviting, and Drummer Boy only barely manages to kick his shoes off and wrap himself in a blanket before sleep starts taking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shaun in this chapter was very much me when I was that age: question, followed by more questions, followed by more questions, followed by a brief summary of what I'd learned that was either spot on or way the fuck off.


	4. On the Human Condition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, last chapter. It's been fun, guys. :)

It’s dark when he wakes. Whisper runs warm even on the coldest nights, it seems, but nothing can keep the chill out of Drummer Boy’s bones, the fear from clenching at his lungs. His breaths come gun-shot quick, his heart hammering against his chest. For a moment, Drummer Boy swears he hears the Courser, hears Blackbird and Sly Nick and Maven and Tommy Whispers. He hears his own blood pumping through his ears, a too-fast staccato to an unsteady beat. Then Whisper is there, smoothing a hand down Drummer Boy’s side, mouth pressed to the hollow behind the informant’s ear.

“Easy,” Whisper murmurs, the rumble of his voice steady and sure as the rising tide. When he says to breathe, Drummer Boy does, filling his lung with air and then emptying them until they have nothing left. Repeat. His ribs creak as they expand. It feels like there’s frost in his fingers, in his hip and in his knee. “Easy, Drummer Boy. Easy. I’m right here. It’s alright. I’m right here. You’ll be alright.” 

He’s crying, Drummer Boy is, all ugly, fat tears and silent sobs. Whisper soothes the tremors with warm hands, hums cradle songs of comfort into Drummer Boy’s hair. Lets Drummer Boy hide his face in the sleeve of the tattered long-sleeve that Whisper wears to bed. Lets Drummer Boy cry, because, let’s face it, it’s been a long time. It’s been a  _ long _ damn time since Drummer Boy has been able to let himself go like this, has been able to fall and trust that someone will be there to catch him. And it’s still terrifying, sre, but Drummer Boy pushes that aside, twists to shove his face against Whisper’s shoulder and  _ cries _ .

“Is he okay?” comes Shaun’s gently whisper. Drummer Boy doesn’t turn around, but he hears the creak of a step- Shaun’s come down from upstairs to make sure everyone’s alright. Quiet steps on quiet feet. Little hands that card through Drummer Boy’s hair. “Bad dreams again? They make him sick.”

Drummer Boy can feel Whisper nodding. “Go back to bed, Shaun,” Whisper directs, firm and cool. “I’ll take care of him, I promise.”

The third board creaks as Shaun goes back upstairs. Drummer Boy smiles against Whisper’s shoulder. Shaun is a good kid. Sweet. Affectionate. Caring. Just like his father. Whisper chuckles when Drummer Boy tells him that.

“More like his mother, really,” Whisper says, shifting a little so that he could be face-to-face with Drummer Boy. There’s a smile curling at the the agent’s lips, tired lines beneath his eyes. “Man, I hope he doesn’t end up like I was in my teens. Just ask Nick: I was a little shit.”

That must be a story- teenage Whisper and twenty-something Nick Valentine living out the pre-War lives. Probably spending most of their time mutually spitting at each other while simultaneously making sure nothing happens to the other. Seems like something they would do. Drummer Boy falls back asleep happy with that thought on his mind. 

It strikes him, Drummer Boy, waking up to a flutter of kisses against neck and a half-hard cock against his thigh, how fragile the human condition truly is. He’s not certain of the exact statistics, but he supposes that the average Wastelander will live until about their fifties if they’re lucky. During that time, they will be accosted by everything from bacteria to the weather to radiation (occasionally, those last two at the same time) to their fellow fucking man. And even if they survive the first instance of whatever tries to kill them, or the second, or the twentieth,  _ something _ will kill them eventually.

There’s no planning for the future is there isn’t a guarantee of one. Or, at least, that’s how Drummer Boy justifies nosing at Whisper’s collarbone to get the agent’s attention, capturing Whisper’s lips in a kiss that’s nothing like the one they shared all those- months? Goodness, it has been months. All those months ago. Then, it had been hesitant, clumsy, unsure of boundaries and unwilling to test for them. 

This time, though, Drummer Boy is done with waiting. He’s done his waiting, and during that time he’s born witness to far too many near-death experiences to warrant any more fucking hesitation. It’s about damn time he started living in the moment, even if that moment is just the next few hours. 

Whisper bites, licks, demands, and Drummer Boy lets him. Lets him bear down, not smothering but  _ present _ , a certain weight. Lets his hands roam, his fingers skimming and dimpling and  _ bruising _ . Lets him undo buttons like he’s picking the most finicky of locks, pull off clothing like he’s unveiling the most delicate of rewards. The intimacy of it is almost painful, and Drummer Boy revels in it, revels in the pain because it reminds him that they’re  _ alive _ despite the fragility of their conditions, revels in the pleasure that sparks white-hot over him, through him. 

This is not Drummer Boy’s first time, not his first time with a guy either, but it is the first time in a while. Since before Switchboard, certainly. Since before… Maybe Glory, and that’s a sombering thought that Drummer Boy puts from his mind before it starts to get to him. Instead, he focuses on the need burning low in his stomach, focuses on grabbing that damn fluffy pillow of Whispers and situating it under his knee so that the bad kind of pain doesn’t flare up at the most inopportune of times. 

Tries not to think about what’s in the oil that Whisper drips over his fingers, but it smells vaguely of mutfruit and carrot flower, so Drummer Boy supposes that it can’t be anything dangerous. It tingles on his skin. Not the radiation kind of tingle. More the feeling of a freshly-trimmed undercut being stroked just the right way, of icy water on singed skin. The nice kind of tingle. Would be nicer if Whisper would just  _ hurry the fuck up _ , but Drummer Boy can’t seem to get enough air in his lungs to voice his complaints.

“Easy, Drummer Boy,” Whisper says, a chuckle in his voice. He smooths a hand along Drummer Boy’s side, fingers dancing with each labored breath. 

“You say that a lot, don’t you?” Drummer Boy huffs out. Then he’s not making any noise, because Whisper has twisted his fingers just  _ there _ and-  _ shit, where’s Shaun _ ?

“He’s out with Preston, don’t worry.” There’s a certain smugness in Whisper’s voice that would be infuriating if Drummer Boy could just get his head on straight. Instead, he whines high in his throat, back arching as Whisper rakes nails down his side. Whimpers when a thumb presses into the crease of his thigh, teeth scraping against the inside of his knee. Three fingers is more prep than most have ever bothered, and it’s teasing.  _ Infuriating _ . Drummer Boy growls out his displeasure, tries to remind Whisper that he’s  _ not fucking fragile _ . 

Whisper chuckles, deep and warm in his throat. The sudden feeling of emptiness leaves Drummer Boy whining, and the promise of something more, something  _ better _ , leaves Drummer Boy’s breath hitching in his throat. Makes him curl towards Whisper, nails skittering across the man’s back, catching on scars and sliding off metal and curling against muscle. For a moment everything is too warm, too full, too eager, too much and not nearly enough. As much as he loves it, hates it, Drummer Boy is already teetering on the edge. Holding himself there is torture of the worst kind, but Drummer Boy is fucking determined, his competitive side rearing it’s ugly head.  _ Don’t come first _ , it says. 

Too damn bad Drummer Boy a visceral creature by nature- he just can’t hold out that long, but the groan Whisper lets out when he comes is almost enough to make Drummer Boy want to rewind time and try again. Or maybe try again. Definitely try again, actually, when his bones stopped feeling like jelly and his hip stops screaming at him for over exerting himself again. Whisper drops his forehead against Drummer Boy’s shoulder, warm breath fanning out across sweaty skin, and together they breathe. 

_ You love him _ , Drummer Boy’s brain informs him, a quiet, traitorous whisper that he can do nothing to stop or deny. Because there’s no denying it, really. He loves Whisper. He loves their banter, he loves Shaun, he loves  _ this _ . And while he would fight tooth and nail for the Railroad, Drummer Boy would literally tear himself apart before he let anything tough Whisper or Shaun. 

“You’re thinking-” Whisper huffs, shifting his weight to free one hand and flick Drummer Boy’s forehead. “-Bad thoughts. Put those away.” 

Drummer Boy chuckles, sighs when Whisper’s fingers dig into sore joints.  

“‘Bad thoughts’?” Drummer Boy echoes. “What are you, twelve?”

“Two-hundred and twelve, give or take a few decades.” Whisper pauses, flopping to the side and pulling Drummer Boy close. “You’ll have to go soon,” he murmurs, soft and mournful. And he does, Drummer Boy- they’re too short-staffed, under too much stress, for him to take a day off. The time he’s spent here has probably already been too long. Too long, certainly, but not a mistake. Drummer Boy refuses to believe that this is a mistake. 

His shirt on the back of the desk chair. His pants by the bed. One of his socks ended up with his pants, the other by the trashcan in the corner. Drummer Boy let his fingers linger a bit on his scarf before tossing it towards Whisper. “For luck,” he explains at the man’s quizzical look. Then he’s lacing up his shoes and out the door. 

Carrington looks up from his work with an expression that says “I know”, but thankfully makes no comment. Drummer Boy can already imagine the smirk on Glory’s face when she finally finds out. Thankfully Deacon has been roped into some kind of east-wall construction project, because if the agent were to start Drummer Boy isn’t sure he’d be able to remain civil. The Railroad is a big dysfunctional family- the teasing and fights that go on are only fitting. 

It’s late in the day when Merry-Winter arrives at the Castle, flanked on either side by Coursers in ill-fitting farmhand outfits. The look on her face is murderous. Goodneighbor is not going well, according to her report. Brotherhood Knights have blockaded the neighborhood, restricting traffic in and out and turning caravans away. Probably the only thing keeping them out is the fear of inciting Mayor Hancock’s wrath- that ghoul can make murder look like mercy compared to what he does to the people who fuck with his town. By this point, everyone knows what happened to Bobbi No-Nose, and to the Triggermen, and to any and all raider gangs who thought Goodneighbor was easy pickings. It was their last mistake. 

They’ll have to move soon, though, if they want to prevent confrontation. The Commonwealth cannot afford all-out war with the Brotherhood of Steel. Nipping the problem at the bud is the solution that costs the least amount of lives. And to do that, they have to bring down the Prydwen. 

Which puts Whisper in the limelight yet again. Drummer Boy curses under his breath, the graphite of his pencil breaking where he pushes it against the paper of the map and into the steel beneath. He wishes Dez were here, because at least then this decision wouldn’t fall onto him. The weight of the agents’ lives he balances in his hands is almost too great. Not to mention, there’s no way to save every Scribe and Knight on the Prydwen. There are too many people, too few vertibirds. Many of them would rather die than abandon ship. There will be inevitable casualties on both sides, during the fight and when the Prydwen falls. 

Drummer Boy rests his head in his hands and thinks about the nature of the human condition. He thinks about the price of freedom, about the weight and worth of souls. And he makes a choice.

Victory gives them a lot of the intel they need to pull off Operation Red Glare- plans of the Prydwen, knowledge of systems, even where they might be able to nab a vertibird. She isn’t able to pilot one, of course, but Whisper seems to have that covered. Drummer Boy doesn’t ask, doesn’t look the gift brahmin in the mouth. If Whisper says that he can fly a transport-model vertibird, Drummer Boy is inclined to believe him. Taking a leap of faith and whatnot. If Drummer Boy ever had an aversion to risk or heights, he certainly doesn’t now. 

Again, Drummer Boy has to wish Whisper farewell with no idea if the agent will ever return. That last part might be the most painful thing. Drummer Boy’s heart catches in his throat when he sees a scrap of fabric peeking out from beneath the collar of Whisper’s coat.  _ For luck _ , because Whisper is going to need all the luck he can get up there. Drummer Boy takes Whisper’s face in his hands, ignoring the scratch of stubble as he presses a kiss against the agent’s lips.  _ For luck _ , Drummer Boy whispers as he pulls away. 

And then Whisper is gone. 

The Castle is quiet in his absence. Most of the Minutemen are either responding to conflicts in settlements across the Commonwealth or standing silent guard on the walls. Drummer Boy plays with Dogmeat and Shaun and tries to pretend he’s not anxious, that he’s not looking for fire on the horizon. He isn’t eager for the Prydwen to fall, for the casualties and death that he knows are coming. He just wants Whisper to come home. He wants  _ Max _ to come home. To see Shaun and Dogmeat running around the Castle courtyard, laughing in the sunlight. Drummer Boy  _ wants _ , so badly that it hurts, aches in his chest and burns like fire behind his eyes.

There are things in life that an agent gives up when they commit themselves to the Railroad. Safety. Security. Peace. It’s why fraternization was never a problem the Alphas felt necessary to address. Every agent understands that by taking on their codename, by devoting their lives to rescuing synths, they sign away their promise of tomorrow. It’s rebirth, redemption, baptism by fire and sacrifice. And for the longest time, Drummer Boy was okay with that. He was okay with not having a tomorrow, for living for the day, for the next deaddrop, for the next agent come home, for the next successfully freed synth. For a while there, that’s all he ever needed.

But after this, the Commonwealth won’t need the Railroad. At the very least, not in the form that it is. There’s still the lingering distrust of synths, sure, lingering fear and prejudice that will likely only be compounded with the Brotherhood presence that will be left behind. But it was the same way with the ghouls after Mayor McDonough took over Diamond City, and with support from the Minutemen and just flat out hard work the ghouls have shaped a place for themselves in the Commonwealth. It’ll be no different with the synths. Given time, the Railroad won’t have a purpose anymore. The Railroad will dissolve, leaving its agent suddenly holding in their hands the future they’d all fought for but never thought they’d live to see.

Watching an orange-colored sky as it burns to the ground, Drummer Boy thinks of the kid that stumbled into Ticonderoga running from a band of raiders. He thinks of the happiness he felt on his first successful run, the same feeling that coursed through his veins when he laid in Whisper’s warmth. He thinks about the future. And it’s beautiful.


End file.
